


A Christmas Carol: Being a Love Story of Christmas

by kingbooooo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: AU Where A Christmas Carol Doesn't Exist Because That's Too Meta For Me, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bastardizing Dickens Because It's Christmas, Except It Sort of Does?, God Bless Us Every One (except hickey), Harry Goodsir Possible Literal Angel, Inspired by Dickens, M/M, Sir John Here For a Good Time Not a Long Time, Sober Crozier, Thomas Blanky Family Man, fuck me like you mean it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: “Manifestation.  Interesting choice of words.  Don’t suppose you’d like to hear about the other ‘manifestations,’ would you?”  Ross used his fingers to make the quotes.Francis turned.“What?”Ross grinned, swirling the martini glass.  The tiny spear through the olive clinked against the rim.“Ghosts.  You, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, will be visited by three ghosts to show you the error of your ways.”- - -Area man experiences significant supernatural holiday-related activity.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 20
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's in the tags, but there is significant discussion of alcoholism/alcohol abuse.

“But you’re not dead!” Francis said.

“Oh no, of course not! But do ghosts have to be dead? Am I really a ghost? Or am I but a figment of your imagination? Does it matter?”

“I would think that a ghost of Goodsir would be full of answers and certainty.”

“Ah, but this is not the natural world, but rather the supernatural. Imagine! Now let’s go, we’ve got lots to see!”

Harry D.S. Goodsir, his former coworker and sometimes housesitter, was not the last person Francis wanted to have some kind of vision of (that would be James), but he certainly wasn’t the first person he wanted to see materialize in his bedroom (that would also be James).

He didn’t want to see anyone. Blanky had invited him over for a Christmas Eve dinner with the family, but Francis turned him down. He probably should have gone. He definitely should have gone.

But he didn’t, and now he could feel exquisitely sorry for himself while imaging Esther carving up a ham. 

Francis looked around the apartment, his top-floor penthouse austere and dark. He hadn’t put up a tree. Nor any decorations. And with James no longer in the process of moving in (the road to cohabitation was best driven slowly and with few express statements), it felt exceptionally empty. Too large without someone else, yet when he sat at the dining table, alone, eating his dinner, it felt like the walls were closing in. Too empty and too small.

Christmas Eve was another sad, lonely meal. He picked over the reheated meatloaf until it had reached room temperature.

_God, I could use a drink,_ he thought morosely. There wasn’t anything in the apartment harder than a can of San Pellegrino, but there was a store around the corner. He could go out, get something. Anything. Maybe just a beer. He could have one beer. The holidays were very stressful.

Francis looked up, sighing. It was snowing outside. Fine. He would retire for the night rather than brave the elements for a Bud Light. The meatloaf was returned to the fridge, and Francis to bed. Without anything to do, without alcohol to stave off his thoughts, the breakup returned to for him to relive as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. This time it was one of their many fights. One of the earlier ones, before James’ anger and depth of hurt was truly revealed. 

“I love you, Francis, but I don’t love your drinking. That’s not a surprise, you know that.”

“I can change, James, I’ve been trying, I-I-”

James sighed. When he was thoughtful, the grooves on his face seemed to deepen. Or when he was sad. Resigned. It was all three, most like. 

Francis had pleaded, pleaded and cried. James had cried as well, but he was resolute. He could be so stubborn. It was the same fight they had, over and over. 

And so James had eventually, perhaps inevitably, left.

That was six months ago. It took another month for Francis to finally talk to his doctor about what to do about his drinking. He’d gotten a prescription for something to help with alcohol withdrawal, a referral to a shrink, and a list of resources.

“Some people don’t really like the structure or intent of AA, so here’s a bunch of other organizations. You might slip up. That’s ok. Come back if you do. This is a process.”

The doctor had been right. He’d hated AA and he’d backslid twice before finding a group that didn’t depend on turning one’s life over to a higher power. That might have been why the appearance of a spirit or a ghost or whatever surprised him, other than the obvious fact of a ghost showing up in his bedroom. Ghosts or spirits or whatever would seem to imply some kind of higher…ghost boss. 

Both times when he’d relapsed, he was so deeply tempted to call James or text him or something. He’d called Blanky instead, who’d taken Francis’ phone, uninstalling Facebook and Instagram.

“No looking him up! I mean it!”

Francis was not going to mess this up a third time.

The fight replayed again and again and again. Francis squeezed his eyes shut. James’ voice echoed in his head. _I love you but I can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this anymore._

“For Christ sake.” Francis threw back the covers. He was going to get that drink. He had snow boots somewhere. 

“Looking for something?”

Francis jumped, falling backwards onto the bed, yelping in surprise.

“Who the fuck-”

The figure that had materialized at the end of the bed turned. It was human shaped, but the edges were indistinct, although it seemed to be sharpening, and it was wrapped in chains. One hand reached up to brush a reddish lock of hair back.

Francis blinked. The room had grown cold but he didn’t seem to notice. It couldn’t be.

“You don’t recognize me? Oh Francis, it hasn’t been that long.” The figure’s form sharpened, the other hand holding a martini glass.

“Ross?” It couldn’t be.

“As you live and breathe. Cheers!”

Francis shook his head. He hadn’t seen Ross in years, not since they’d sold the business. But as far as he knew, Ross was still among the living. He got a Christmas card from them every year. 

“But you’re not…”

“Dead? No, I’m very much alive, but I’m not here. Not really.” He rattled the chains, which oddly didn’t make any noise. Wouldn’t if he was really a ghost, Francis thought.

“Huh,” was all Francis was able to utter, standing up again. “So you’re my imagination. You know what would solve this? A stiff drink. Where are my boots?”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about why I’m here?”

“Not really. It’s been a bad December and I suppose this is just the newest manifestation.”

Ross laughed. 

“Manifestation. Interesting choice of words. Don’t suppose you’d like to hear about the other ‘manifestations,’ would you?” Ross used his fingers to make the quotes.

Francis turned.

“What?”

Ross grinned, swirling the martini glass. The tiny spear through the olive clinked against the rim.

“Ghosts. You, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, will be visited by three ghosts to show you the error of your ways.”

“But I quit drinking. And you still haven’t told me what you are. And what’s the deal with the chains?” Francis’ anger had dissipated, but he still really wanted that drink.

“These?” Ross held up the chains. “Paper. My niece makes them. To decorate. You know, people usually decorate their homes for the holidays. All you need for these is a bit of construction paper and a glue stick!” Ross grinned that insouciant grin.

“Bah. What a bunch of bullshit. Ghosts aren’t real.” He strode across the closet. He thought he saw a boot towards the back, one with a good tread. This was far too strange. It had to be some sad figment of his imagination. He was just depressed. Ah! Was that the laces?

“Throw in a ‘humbug’ and the picture is complete!”

Francis shook his head. What was Ross talking about?

“How about a fuck off?” he replied.

“Oh Francis, dear Francis.” The voice was behind him as Francis crouched over his shoes. “Three ghosts. Spirits. Hallucinations. Other than me, of course. The first one will arrive when the clock strikes 11. Beware, Francis! Heed their advice, lest you become like me!”

He’d found one of the boots.

“How’s that? Encrusted in children’s arts and crafts?”

“Haunting people on Christmas Eve!”

“Oh, go away!” Francis turned to glare at Ross.

“Your wish is my command.” Ross’ outline blurred. “They really have their work cut out for them, that’s for sure. Heed their words, Francis. Boo!”

With that, Ross melted into nothing. Francis walked over to where he’d been, the chill settling back into his bones. He shook his head, setting one of the boots down. 

He was so tired. Eleven pm? He’d sleep through it. Francis got back into bed, looking up at the bedposts. 

James had wanted the four-poster bed. James. He missed him so, so much.

Francis rolled over, falling into a restless sleep.

\- - -

He’d been awakened by a sharp prod to the side, opening his eye to find one Harry Goodsir, bedecked in white flowing robes. Like an angel, or a cult leader.

“Greetings, Francis. I am the ghost of Christmas past,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s get going, we’ve got places to be, my good man!”

Francis pressed Goodsir on his status as dead or alive, not getting a clear answer. When he turned to go back to bed, Harry poked him again with a finger. When he turned to protest, the room was gone, Francis falling to the ground, swearing, Harry clapping his hands together once. 

“Where did my room go? Where’s my bed? Harry, what have you done?”

“I told you. Christmas past,” he said, not answering the question.

Everything came back into focus, slowly. It was a coffee shop, bedecked in holiday decorations. Outside it was snowing.

“Is that…” Francis paused, getting to his feet. It couldn’t be. He squeezed his eyes shut. This was a dream. A dream. Just a dream.

“Not a dream. Well, I suppose it shares a lot of characterizations of a dream. But it’s not purely a dream. Open your eyes, Francis. Do you know what this is?”

Francis complied.

The coffee shop vision was clearer. Now he could smell the coffee and the seasonal flavors. Peppermint. Chocolate. The door to the coffee shop opened, Francis feeling the chill breeze.

He blinked again. The sounds got a bit louder, sharp and clear. It had been muffled as though he was watching it on TV. He shook his head, confirming the sound quality was better. And over in the corner, Francis could see the back of his own head, the place where his hair was thinning. Francis reached up to touch it. 

“Is that, ah.”

“You?” Harry smiled beatifically. “Yes, it is. And someone else. Should we go see what they’re about? Don’t worry, they can’t see or hear you. This is the past, and while I have the power to revisit it, changing it is well beyond my capabilities. Besides, then we start to get into all sorts of weird paradoxes and we certainly don’t have time to delve into that!” He was walking over. Walking, not gliding. So he wasn’t an angel, as in Francis’ estimation, angels would probably glide.

The conversation came in snippets until Francis was nearly on them, his past self in a black crewneck sweater. The other person, James, in an oversize striped jumper, was smiling. Really smiling. Francis felt embarrassment sweep over him. This was his first date with this wonderful man, James. And it was also the beginning of the end.

He had not been honest with either James or himself about the extent of his drinking or his reasons, the animal inside him that fed on shame. Whiskey helped quiet it, but it also made the bite more painful once he’d sobered up. Where it had come from and why it was so hungry was a question for his shrink. He couldn’t name it while he was with James. All he knew was how to make it stop for an evening or a weekend. As he got older, he wanted that quiet to be longer and longer.

Francis stepped closer so that he could hear the conversation. The Old Francis took a sip of his coffee. He said something that made James laugh, ducking his head before looking back up at him, one eye obscured by his hair.

James reached out a thumb, wiping something off Old Francis’ face. Francis brushed his own lip. The loss of James lodged itself in his throat.

“Do you wish to see more?”

Francis shook his head, unable to speak.

“Well, we won’t see more of this, but we have two more stops, my friend.”

“I-” Francis swallowed again. “I don’t want to.”

“Too bad.” Goodsir smiled and clapped his hands together.

The second stop was a day in spring. Francis remembered it well. James had stopped by the shop, Francis working on repairing the engine of a boat. 

“Surprise,” he said, holding out lunch. James was always good in the kitchen. Francis was a happy guinea pig for James’ culinary creations, James considering changing careers. He would make an excellent chef.

“I thought you were the Ghost of Christmas Past. That’s not Christmas. That was in March.”

Harry looked puzzled before comprehension warmed his face.

“Oh! No. Semantics. You think the name means I can only show you Christmas.” He laughed. “The Christmas refers to when I can appear. If you’d be more comfortable, you could think of this as your mind’s delusion rather than a bit of Christmas magic. That’s a bit cynical, though.”

Harry looked at Old Francis and James before turning his gaze back to Francis.

“This was important. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been drawn here. Why?”

Old Francis handed James a small box. The conversation was muffled again. If Francis concentrated enough, it would probably come into focus, but he didn’t need it to.

“I…” he looked again at Old Francis and James, who’d opened the box, his face lighting up. It hurt to see that. James had smiled so little the last few months before he’d left. Francis would have done nearly anything to see James smiled.

“I asked if he wanted to move in with me.” James was holding up a key.

“Harry, please, take me somewhere else. Harry!”

The apparition was silent, looking at James marveling over the key.

“You made him very happy, do you see that?”

Francis swore, turning away so that Harry couldn’t see him cry. The bloody key. A week after James had collected his last belongings, a small package had arrived on his doorstep, requiring a signature. Francis had been fairly certain what was inside, so he left it on the table next to the door until he’d gotten sick of accidentally knocking it over every time he came home.

A small paring knife made quick work of the packing tape. James would have been horrified that he was using “the good knives,” as though there were corresponding bad knives to open the box. Inside was the key, wrapped in brown parcel paper and a small piece of red string. Even in the breakup, James’ dedication to ceremony was present.

“I can’t take much more. You said you had a third vision. Let’s get this over with,” Francis said, his voice a bit strained. He felt as though he was witnessing an autopsy of his relationship with James.

Harry nodded. “You won’t like it.”

“Then why are you showing it to me?”

Harry clapped and the tableau faded away. The apartment was coming into focus.

“Because you need to see, with the sober clarity of now, rather than within the cloud of inebriation. You drank so you could dull those hard emotions, as though shearing off the sharp points of pain would be permanent. It was just a delay, you know.”

“Are you my therapist?”

Harry smiled and shrugged.

The apartment. They had materialized in the middle of a fight. Or rather the end of it. One of many. Francis couldn’t recall which one it was or what had started it, but, like many relationships, the start of the fight was irrelevant. The conversation came into sharp focus without Francis even trying.

“I’m sorry! I’ll try, I can try again.” Old Francis was in his cups. His face was flushed, both from anger and from whatever he’d been drinking, probably vodka. It was easier to hide.

“You always say that. Every time!” James’ voice was pinched and high, his hair a mess. His habit was to run his hands through it, repeatedly, when he was upset or deep in thought. This fight must have been going on all evening, James resembling a fancy lion. He sank into the chair.

“It’s the same fight. We’ve had this fight over and over, the same cause, the same outcome. It’s miserable. You know that, right? The way you keep hurting me?”

“I’m sorry. I can quit. I know I can, James. I can. I’ll try.”

“You’re always sorry. You’re always so sorry.” James looked up, his eyes hollow. Looking at Old Francis, then looking past him. Francis could have sworn James was looking at him. 

“I can’t love you enough to make you stop drinking. Took me too long to realize it. And you don’t love me more than your problems, not enough to actually try. White-knuckling it is an exercise in futility.” James got up and turned, walking away from the table, each step heavy as though he was Atlas holding up the heavens, the heavens of Francis’ alcoholism. 

Old Francis was quiet.

“Harry, please take me home,” Francis said.

“Yes, that might be a good idea.” The apartment went out of focus, and then back in at the clap of hands.

“He moved out a week after that. I remember because of what he said about not being able to love me into sobriety. He wasn’t right, it wasn’t that I didn’t love him enough, it’s that I couldn’t admit that it was… that it was enough of a problem to get outside help.”

“Did you learn anything?”

Francis looked at Harry. What an exasperating ghost.

“If I say yes, will you go away?”

Harry laughed, clapping Francis on the shoulder. “My time is at a close anyway.” The robes were glowing a bit. “You have two more ghosts. The next arrives at midnight. You might learn something from them.”

“The true meaning of Christmas?”

“Something like that. It’s really more of a choose your own adventure of self-discovery! Ah, listen to me prattle on.”

The robes were glowing very brightly.

“Good night Francis, and happy Christmas!”

It was blinding, the light coming off of Harry. Francis stepped back in alarm. The flat was going to catch fire. He turned, grabbing a blanket, shaking it out and throwing it over the blazing figure in the middle of his bedroom.

The blanket should have made a Harry shape. Instead, it fell straight to the floor, startling Francis. He toed the blanket, before pulling it up. Nothing was underneath. The blanket was free of any scorch marks.

Frustrated, he pulled it up, tossing it over the foot of the bed. He was too tired to contemplate the learning experience of Harry Goodspirit (Francis smiled at his own, admittedly poor wordplay) and the visions of his past. He threw the covers back, fell into bed and into slumber, giving no thought to other visitors.


	2. Chapter 2

Unluckily for Francis, there were indeed more visitors.

This time it wasn’t a poke, but rather a noise from the other room, and light. It was far too bright to credit to Francis’ interior lighting situation. He got up, rubbing his eye, snatching the blanket from on top of the bed to wrap around his shoulders. The room was very cold.

It wasn’t just light. Someone was on the other side of the door. He threw it open to be greeted by-

“Ah! Francis! Happy Christmas!”

Francis squinted.

“John?”

John Franklin, seated at his dining room table, was definitely dead, so this must be his ghost.

“Surprised to see me?” John laughed, smiling at Francis. “I am dead. I have not returned from the dead. Well, my spirit has!”

It looked like John Franklin, although the robe situation was a bit much. Like a Santa coat but floor-length, and green rather than red. On his head was some kind of wreath. The whole getup looked incredibly tacky. Leave it to John to overdress for the wrong occasion. In one hand, he held a tin of biscuits. 

“Cookie?” John asked.

“Why are you here? I’m very tired.”

“Of course you are. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! No, not presents, but my presence is presents enough!” He laughed again at his joke. “I’m here to show you Christmas outside your own home, and hopefully you will learn something.”

Francis shook his head. He’d had enough of learning experiences.

“Do we have to do this?”

John frowned. The light in the kitchen dimmed. “You don’t have to, of course, but this is a gift not many receive. Come, my boy! Let us be off!” He stood and held out an arm. “Take my robe!”

Francis rearranged the blanket around his shoulders as his own robe of sorts. He sighed, pinching the fabric, expecting it to feel cheap, mildly surprised when it didn’t.

The apartment blinked out of being. Franklin had better control of this whole teleportation thing. Would the spirits send surveys? Francis would have to mark Goodsir down, although, upon reflection, he posited that traveling to the past might be more technically difficult than the lateral moves John was making.

The scene blinked in – Thomas Blanky’s house. Francis knew it well, he’d been over there countless times. Thomas’ children called him uncle. His wife Esther called him “an irascible pest” with a twinkle in her eye.

The family was around the table, which was full of good food. It smelled very good. It smelled liked the holidays. Thomas was wearing the most hideous Christmas jumper, which appeared to have real light-up Christmas decorations across the front.

The sound though, it was muffled. Francis wondered if it was on purpose. It was warm, though, warmer than his place. He didn’t need to hold the blanket too tightly. 

“Don’t worry, they cannot see nor hear us. Do you know where we are, Francis?”

Francis looked at John to see if he was joking. He couldn’t tell from John’s benevolent, if slightly vacant smile.

“Uh…yes.”

John inclined his head slightly.

“And do you know why I brought you here?”

“Because…” Francis frowned. To make him feel bad? He didn’t need the incorporeal vision of his old girlfriend’s father and one-time boss to show up in a fancy bathrobe to make him feel bad. He could do that all on his own.

“No.”

John beamed. He snapped his fingers, the sounds of the room focusing like Francis’ ears had popped.

“You invited Francis, didn’t you?” Esther asked, passing a basket of rolls to one of the children, the older girl who had the Thomas’ wild hair.

“Yes. He turned me down. I can’t drag him in here by his hair, although I wish I could.” He frowned. “When was used to get soused, I bet I could have. Anyway. I tried. He’s sober, and it’s sticking longer than I’ve ever seen.”

Francis felt a stab of guilt, like a stone in his gut.

“But he’s still out of sorts from the breakup. I don’t know what more I can do.”

Esther looked at him. “You can’t save him. I love him too, but he’s got to save himself. You can’t do it for him.”

The table fell quiet, the children looking at Thomas and Esther.

“I know,” he said, looking back at her, pointing to the rolls.

“Text him tomorrow, see if he’d like to come over for New Year’s. We can have a dry countdown.” 

Thomas nodded, turning back to the children.

John leaned over between the tableau and Francis like a large, smiling seal, the sound muted again.

“What have you learned?”

John seemed intent on making this feel like a damned afterschool special. Francis’ Crozier’s Sad Lonely Christmas.

“I learned that my friends are not assholes.”

“Correct! And now, we alight to another scene! My robe, if you don’t mind!”

Begrudgingly, Francis took it. The house melted away.

In its place was a house party with lots of people. Francis squinted. He recognized a few drinking buddies. Dundy, always good for a good time. Cornelius Hickey. Little shit. If that was his real name. He’d stolen 50 quid out of Francis’ wallet one night and come back for more, only to find a very angry, starting-to-sober-up Francis, who’d punched him and broken his nose. And he’d still gotten hired at Francis’ job, even with that testimonial. Cornelius’ ex Gibson, who would have made a good spirit, nearly insubstantial. And Cornelius’ new on-again, off-again fuck buddy. What was his name? Tobey? Bulldozer? No. It was Tozer. God, he was huge.

Francis was continuing to tally the guests, the sound still muted, although he could feel the baseline rattling the windows.

John leaned in again, right into Francis’ personal space. Maybe he wasn’t a seal, maybe it was more like a friendly brontosaurus bending in.

“Recognize anyone?”

He nodded. “Most everyone.”

John made a noise of agreement, letting Francis continue to look about. It was warm, like Blanky’s house, but it was also humid, that hot, sticky feeling from having too many people and too little ventilation. And the smell. Bodies and booze. It was the kind of atmosphere he’d been warned about by his therapist, the kind of social pressure that might make him want to drink, and she was right. It was making him feel itchy.

“We won’t stay long,” John said quietly. “We don’t need to hear what they’re saying. Well, you don’t. I can hear them. A lot of noise without meaning, and I should know! I’m very good at it, wouldn’t you agree?” John laughed. “There are two relevant things from this before we go. One, they aren’t talking about you.”

Francis nodded dumbly. He wasn’t shocked. They weren’t his friends, but it still hurt.

“Two. Do you see anyone you miss?”

Francis coughed.

“No. But there is someone I don’t see. That I miss, I mean.”

“Very good! Clever boy. Which leads us to-” John held out an arm, shaking it until Francis took it, the room fading out.

The last scene was instantly recognizable, as was the man sitting on the couch. James.

The sound wasn’t muted, although there wasn’t much. Christmas music on the stereo. The click of a diet coke can getting set on the table. Francis looked at John. He’d aged, his hair nearly all white. Francis, puzzled, pointed at it.

“All part of the process,” John said, lifting a hand to his hair. “Present doesn’t last but a moment, and then it’s the past. But! We aren’t here to discuss the nature of time. We are here to see this.”

“Why?” Francis looked back at James. He was doing fine. He looked fine. He looked more than fine.

James was ridiculously good-looking. Francis always felt like the ugly ducking next to him. Seeing James now, Francis six months sober, was like seeing him with new eyes. The soft waves of his beautiful dark hair, the abruptness of his jawline, highlighted by the dark green turtleneck he was wearing. His face was pinched, the grooves along his face deepened. Francis has been fond of running a finger down them. The deep amber-brown eyes, as equally prone to melancholy as they were to merriment.

“Why are we here, John? He’s doing fine. Look at him. Look! Ghost of Christmas Present? What is the reason?” His voice cracked. “He’s, he’s better without me. Take me home, John.” 

“No.” The response was quiet and firm. “Look.”

On the stereo, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on. James looked up, eyes sad.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas…let your heart be light….from now on our troubles will be out of sight…_

James sat up.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas…make the yuletide gay…from now on our troubles will be miles away…_

He stood, walking over to the stereo, listening to the song continue, the bridge and the third verse.

_Through the years we all will be together, should the fates allow…_

At this, James switched the stereo off. The room was silent for a moment before James let out a sob, his hand covering his eyes. He leaned against the wall, crying openly, the sound a blade inside Francis’ heart, carving its way out. It nearly knocked him to his knees, unable to follow James as he left the room.

“That’s why we’re here, Francis.”

“It could be anything. The holidays are stressful for everyone.”

John chuckled.

“Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought James was just a little verklempt about getting his holiday cards out on time.” Francis turned to look at him. John was old, very old, his voice strained with age.

“It’s you, Francis. The truth of it is somehow harder for you to sit with, isn’t it? Lucky for you, my time is nearly done.” John held out the arm which shook a bit. Francis took it gingerly, finding himself back in the apartment.

“I’m near all used up. I hope I’ve given you some things to consider.” The voice was reedy. “Your last visitor arrives at 1am. Goodbye, Francis.”

John was gone, leaving Francis to an empty room.


	3. Chapter 3

Francis paced the room, the blanket tossed back onto the bed. Past, present, future? What would this apparition look like? What would his mind come up with?

He could leave. Wasn’t sure where he could go, but he could go for a walk. He wouldn’t get snatched away by a ghost if he was away from the apartment, he reasoned. Francis sat up, locating trousers, socks, the snow boots, pulling one on, then the other.

“Bah,” he said to himself, finding his down jacket. Fuck the Ghost of Christmas Future. How would anything be able to show the future? He found his keys, turning and opening the front door.

The hallway to the elevator was gone.

Instead, there stood a slender figure with a dark robe. Francis stumbled backward. The figure bent its tall shape to enter, a cold breeze finding its way past the downy layer of Francis’ coat.

The robes were dark grey and threadbare, the hem dirty and ragged as it dragged along the ground. Francis looked up briefly, scared to look longer. The hood was too deep and too dark to see anything but near total darkness, no trace of any kind of face or head.

His eyes traveled down to the shoulders, hunched a bit, the arms, the tattered cuffs with trailing threads. The hands were long and skinny and black. Were they gloves? Or were the hands the color of pitch? He squinted. The figure was a bit indistinct, but unlike the visions earlier, Francis did not think it would resolve the focus.

“Are you here for me?” The shade, which had been gliding forward, gliding, not walking, stopped. It turned the hood towards Francis, inclining it slightly in affirmation. It felt like overkill, but if a large spooky…thing showed up anytime he wanted a drink, Francis was sure it would cure his alcoholism for certain.

“Why are you here?”

The spirit remained silent, pointing outside, gliding back to the door. Francis was rooted to the spot. The shade nodded once, beckoning with one long, bony finger. Francis’ feet took one unsteady step towards the door. Then another. And another.

Francis Crozier was afraid, well and truly afraid. Was this what dying was about? He wasn’t ready to go. Logically, the Ghost of Christmas Future represented death in general. Everyone would die, even Cornelius Hickey, who’d managed to get that job and had stolen £500 out of the office safe.

Cornelius had taken Francis aside one day, first to apologize, insincerely, for the theft of Francis’ money at the house party, and then to inform him that he could live forever, and that Cornelius was willing to impart this knowledge unto Francis for a mere £1,000. Francis had balked on several grounds, one of which was that according to Cornelius, it only required a wee bit of blood sacrifice, and who really needed their tongue anyway?

Cornelius had gotten fired later that day. Then they’d discovered the theft, but when Francis had contacted the police, he had discovered that Cornelius wasn’t even his real name. The actual Cornelius Hickey had died under mysterious circumstances, the nice detective wondering if Mr. Crozier would mind coming down to the station and give a statement about the small ginger man with the wicked little grin and the intense gaze.

Maybe fake Cornelius was going to live forever. Francis was certainly under no illusions that someday he would die.

“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?” Francis asked tentatively. 

The shade stopped. It shook its head, then brought its thumb and pointer nearly together.

“Close.”

It nodded, beckoning him again.

“Ghost of Christmas…” What was another word for future? “Ghost of what might happen?”

The shade shrugged, before gesturing to the hallway more forcefully. Maybe it wouldn’t show him his death. Francis stepped through the door.

This spirit had the most mastery of time and space, no clapping of hands or requests to touch a part of its garment. No spoken words. Blanky’s living room appeared, the vision crisp and the sound immediately clear.

“I’ve seen this before. The first member from your little trio brought me here. Or is it a quartet, with Ross?” 

The spirit shook its head, pointing forward.

Blanky looked the same, although he did not seem to get any older once he’d reached the age of salty sea captain. He was wearing a different sweater; this one had a melting snowman on the front and an awful lot of colorful sequins. The children looked older, too. The eldest had hit a growth spurt that shot her way past the younger, who was missing a front tooth.

Francis looked closer. Place setting for Thomas and Esther, the two girls, and one more.

“Must be for me,” Francis said lightly.

The shade was, as ever, quiet, uncomfortably so.

“Pass the rolls, please,” said the youngest, her lost tooth giving her a slight lisp. Francis smiled. James had a lisp growing up. It had embarrassed him terribly, so ashamed of the speech therapy he went to, and the cruelty he’d endured from other children.

Thomas passed the rolls before turning to the empty spot.

“I…” he started, before looking up at his wife.

“I know. You did your best,” she said, standing and walking over to the place setting. “Do you want me to leave it?”

Thomas nodded, Esther smiling gently and returning to her seat.

“Spirit. Ghost. Spooky thing.”

The shade shook its head violently at the last name.

“Ok. Spirit it is. What has happened?”

The spirit shook its head again, gently.

Francis sighed. This would be so much easier if it would talk to him. When he voiced that suggestion, the spirit stared at him, or at least that’s what Francis though. Without any visible eyes, it was hard to know what it was looking at. It was unnerving, Francis taking a step back before casting his eyes down. When he looked up again, the room was fading out, replaced by James’ apartment. It looked the same as when John had taken him, but upon inspection, the decorations had changed a bit.

James walked in, dressed in a button-up with a black sweatervest and slim-cut jeans. He was on the phone.

“Oh, thank you for the invite! I’ve got a couple things I need to finish but I’ll head over once I’m done, yeah?” He paused, listening. “Sure. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Cheers.”

The conversation completed, James sank into the couch, toeing a pair of brown brogues off.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said to himself, wandering over to the stereo to put some music on before returning to the couch, curling up as best as someone could with those long legs. The phone was out, James thumbing through something. Judging by the comments and the direction of the swiping, Francis guessed it was Tinder. _Still single_ , he thought.

This went on for a few minutes, which to Francis’ mind seemed overly punitive. He was about to ask the spirit what, exactly, was the point, when James coughed. Francis looked over, surprised to see tears rolling down James’ cheek. He’d always wondered if tears got swallowed up in those deep grooves.

James snuffled, wiping at his face with the back of one hand.

“Fool, you’re such a fool,” he said to himself. The thumb was scrolling up, rather than left and right. “Such a fool.”

Francis was puzzled. He looked up at the shade, which peered down at him, the black nothing underneath the hood sending a shiver down his spine. It gestured with its head, towards James. Frustrated at his inaction, the spirit jerked its head a bit harder, the ratty robe shaking a bit as it pointed. Maybe if Francis played stupid, the hood would come off completely. It was now gesturing with both hands open, urging him on.

This felt like a bad idea, but none of the spirits had led him astray yet. Subjected him to low levels of trauma. Let him fall off the bed by making it disappear. Come to think of it, there had not been a lot of asking if he wanted to do this. Which was worse, being subjected to this by outside forces or his own imagination? Regardless, this would be ample fodder for weeks, if not months of therapy.

Francis filed it away, approaching James. His breath caught in his throat. It was the closest he had seen him in months. None of the visions had felt inauthentic, but this one felt particularly real. James felt real. And he was so close.

He waved a hand in front of James’ face, not expecting a reaction, and not seeing one either. Emboldened, he reached out to James’ beautiful hair, his hand going straight through it. Startled, he jerked back, looking at the shade who had the bearing of exasperation. The head was tipped back slightly and it appeared to issue a sigh.

“How was I supposed to know?” Francis asked.

The shade flapped a hand at him again. James was still crying, but the tears had dried up, and he was nearly done. Francis turned his head to see what James was scrolling through.

“Us,” he murmured. James was scrolling through photos of them. A picture at the beach. One from their trip to Canada. It had been very cheap because it was in the dead of winter. A set of photos of them on the deck of a boat.

Francis sat down next to James. He didn’t go through the couch, noting that this meant there were some rules to these visions. Maybe it was inanimate objects he could interact with. Francis looked back at the phone.

“That fucking boat tour,” Francis said. It had run aground and sprung a leak, just a little damned boat tour, and they had to get rescued. He laughed hollowly.

“I miss you so much,” James said to nobody in particular. He continued to scroll.

“I miss you too,” Francis replied.

Seeing James upset had always hurt Francis to the bone. He was always sorry, truly, even if James didn’t believe him. Even when James did believe Francis’ apologies, it didn’t make the pain less. At least he’d been the one brave enough to put a stop to it, so that Francis could only hurt himself.

Francis put his head in his hands.

He’d loved James too much and himself far, far too little.

“Spirit,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to be here. Take me home, please. I’ve had enough.” He got up from the couch. “Take me home!”

The shade stood up tall. It shook its head, a small, menacing gesture.

“You will-”

The room disappeared.

They were now in a cemetery. Francis was glad he’d worn the boots and the jacket; it was very cold and it was snowing. Not cute, snow globe snowflakes, but fat, wet flakes that immediately melted along his collar. Francis looked up at the shade, who seemed to be even larger, looming over him. An arm extended, pointing toward an old headstone.

“Spirit…”

It pointed, more forcefully, growing taller.

Francis was sufficiently frightened, backing away, turning to look at one of the gravestones, the one the spirit was gesturing at so forcefully. It was untended, old snow puling up beneath a layer of fresh snowfall. He sank to his knees, ignoring the cold soaking through his jeans. The snow was very difficult to clear, his fingers going dead from the cold as he scraped away the ice, the letters carved in worn nearly away. Francis squinted. He couldn’t make it out.

He looked back, the spirit towering above him, the wind whipping the robe about, Francis shrinking away. He wasn’t able to make himself small, but he tried, anything to get away from the ghost, turning back to the headstone and the task of clearing it away with his hands. His knuckles were getting battered.

Francis sat back slightly. The shade was still above him, casting a cold shadow over the stone. Unlikely he could get it to move. He squinted at the gravestone.

“James Fitzjames.”

His heart nearly stopped. The years were beneath. He traced them. Only it wasn’t years, it was…

“Francis, call him.” He read it again, running a hand to make sure the letters didn’t change. “What?”

He scrambled up. Enough was enough.

“What is this? Why are you doing this to me?” The shade had shrunk down a bit. “If this is a dream, I want it to be over! And if it’s not, I have not asked for this!” He smacked himself across the face. “Wake up! Wake up!” He smacked himself again.

“Stop!” 

“Ah. It speaks.” Francis glared at it. “Take me home. Now. I’m cold. I’m mentally taxed. This has been awful and the only thing I’ve learned is that I’m miserable and alone. I hurt the person I love the most and I’m apparently _still_ hurting him.” Utterly exhausted, he began to cry.

“I loved him. I love him. And this,” he pointed at the gravestone, “is cruel joke. Take me home. I’ve hurt him enough.”

“Just call him, you clod!”

Francis looked up. The voice. He looked at the gravestone, then back at the spirit.

“Have you truly learned nothing?” The spirit threw back the hood.

It was James.

Francis stepped back, before finding his resolve, pointing an angry finger at the shade. He was not enjoying this revelation one bit.

“What the hell are you doing in my extended and extremely unpleasant lucid dream? Have you enjoyed watching me pour my heart out watching James, or you, or, fuck, I don’t like this. Home! Now!”

Shade-James pointed a finger at him. “I will, but first, before you fully lose your temper. You want to know the point. What were you told the purpose of this was?”

“To see the error of my ways. Harry said something about the true meaning of Christmas.” He folded his arms.

“And?”

“I didn’t get any lessons about the Christmas spirit or picking the perfect gift, or, or, or…”

“God, you’re so thickheaded. This was a lot easier when I was dealing with that sad lonely Victorian miser.” James tossed up his hands. “What did you see? What about at Blanky’s house?”

“Uh. A seat at their table.” Francis cleared his throat. “No matter what.”

“And what did you see with James? Me.”

“This is a very strange conceit, you must admit.”

“Sure.”

Francis shivered. It was still snowing, and the feeling was coming back into his fingers. They were starting to hurt. 

“Someone who missed me. Some possible future where you still miss me.” He flexed his fingers, wincing. “Who might have room for forgiveness.”

“The true meaning of Christmas. Forgiveness. Unconditional love. Being with the people you love and who love you in return. Why do you think there are so many songs about being alone on Christmas? Hits right here.” James touched his chest.

Francis swallowed, a lump forming in his throat.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. The snowing had stopped. Francis looked back at the gravestone. He almost laughed at the idea of someone or something constructing this elaborate ruse. Who’d ever heard of such a thing?

“I know. Are you ready to go?” James asked.

“Think so.”

The cemetery disappeared, everything fading away to nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Francis had forgotten to reset his alarm for the holiday, which meant it went off at 6am. He couldn’t say he felt at all rested.

He sat up in bed, pulling back the covers. Old T-shirt, flannel pants. Francis got out of bed to inspect the closet. All the way at the back were the snow boots, underneath a pair of sneakers.

“Jesus.” He sat back on the edge of the bed. “What did I eat last night?”

He checked his phone. There was a text from Blanky.

_Missed you last night! We’re having brunch later if you’d like to stop by!_ Attached was a photo of Blanky under a pile of children.

If it was a dream, why did he remember all of it? Francis pinched the bridge of his nose, the move causing pain in his hand. In his-

His knuckles were scabbed over and purpling a bit.

“Can’t be,” he said. “Can’t.” He sat in bed for a solid half-hour, looking at his phone and his hands, marveling at the cuts and bruises. 

The next part took an hour. First, Francis had to find the number. He’d written it down on a post-it and put it at the bottom of a drawer so as not to tempt him. Second came the drafting. Type, delete. Type type type. Delete.

_Happy Christmas, James._

_Hi James, I was thinking of you._

_Hello James, it’s Francis. I had an extended dream sequence involving time-traveling, and ghosts, and you, also as a ghost, and my old business partner, who isn’t dead, I think, it’s been awhile, and my old boss who definitely is dead. Anyway the spirit of you said to give you a call but I know you prefer texting. You looked really sad and I always do what ghosts tell me to do, at least now that I know ghosts are real. Or maybe it was my imagination? Don’t think it was. I can tell you about it later. How are you?_

Fuck.

_Happy Christmas. I hope you’re doing well._

Francis hit send, putting the phone down to take a shower.

_Hi Francis. Happy Christmas. I’m doing all right._

Francis, towel around his waist, looked at the phone, wilting a bit. The text did not seem to prompt a response. He’d discharged his duties to ghost-James. He’d go see Thomas and Esther this afternoon. The phone dinged again.

_I have a lot of Christmas biscuits. Would you like to stop by? You could bring a Tupperware container._

Francis looked at the phone, another text popping up.

_I’d like to see you._

His heart nearly stopped.

_Yeah. I’d like that too._

Christ, what was he going to wear?

\- - -

“I’ve been sober about five months,” Francis said, sitting on James’ couch. He hadn’t been sure what to do when he got there. Should he shake hands? Hug? Salute James as though he were a five-star general? He’d held out his hand, James going in for a hug, so they’d settled for an extremely awkward nothing.

“Congratulations!”

“Well. I slipped up a few times, but I’m in treatment. Meetings, therapy, meds. I’m taking it seriously.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” James replied.

This went on for an excruciating time (Francis thought it was at least a half-hour when in reality it was more like ten minutes, proving the fluid nature of time, something the ghost of John Franklin probably would have enjoyed discussing in between brushing biscuit crumbs off his robe and making bad puns), covering such important topics as job updates, mutual friends, and this year’s John Lewis commercial.

Francis checked his watch. It was time for him to go.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have done this when we were together,” he said quietly. “I’m so so sorry. I’m doing a lot of work. I would have called, but I didn’t want you to think this was some sort of breakup cashgrab, that I did this just to try to win you back.”

James nodded, look down at his shoes.

“That’s all. I should be on my way.” Francis stood. If he were here much longer, he was likely to say something heartfelt or embarrassing or both. “Happy Christmas.”

“You know, I had the strangest dream last night,” James said. “Very strange.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me and this is, I think you’ll agree, perhaps a very bad idea.”

James reached for Francis’ hand.

“Please don’t go.”

Francis looked down at James, who looked tired and fragile. Francis could imagine what he looked like and it wasn’t pleasant.

“Francis, do you not…”

How could James think such a thing? Francis had loved him, did love him fiercely. But that had not been enough.

He should leave. He’d hurt James enough, so much, so many times. 

Instead, he bent in and kissed James, who pulled him back down to the couch.

“No,” Francis murmured. I mean yes. I mean,” Francis studied James, who looked as though one wrong word would crack and break him. “I love you. I didn’t come over here to, ah, well. And then leave. I don’t want to leave. There’s so much I want to show you, prove to you.”

James pressed his forehead to Francis, anchoring him to this spot in time.

“I know. I miss you. And you’re getting treatment. But…” he let out a sigh, one that contained a multitude of ache and heartbreak and broken promises.

“I can’t promise I won’t crack,” Francis said. “I’m human. You’ve seen that, more than anyone. I haven’t fixed myself, dunno that I ever will.” He wrapped his arm around James, pulling him in. 

“James, you can’t fix me. But you don’t have to. Please don’t make me beg. I would if you wanted, but allow me my dignity, if you don’t mind.”

James let out a shaky laugh.

“I’d prefer you not to although I do like making you beg.”

“Tease.” Francis kissed him.

“I would like to…try again. God there has to be a better way to say that.”

“Reunited!”

“No.” 

“Spoilsport,” Francis said. “I’m trying to be romantic.”

“And I’m trying to get you undressed,” James replied. “I need you. Badly.”

That low thrum in James’ voice awakened something in Francis, a part of himself that he’d almost entirely forgotten as he’d subsisted on sad shower masturbation for months.

James wasn’t a memory or an imagining. He wasn’t a ghost or some possible future. He wasn’t a vision of a man sobbing over an old Christmas song. He was here and corporeal. Francis tightened his arms around him and kissed him like a man on fire, as though James was his undeniable fate. Kissed him like he’d waited nearly six months to show him he was a new man, that he could change, that he could be a better version, imperfectly improved.

And James kissed him back. Slowly and softly, but Francis needed more, opening his lips, James responding as he clutched at Francis’ Henley, Francis noting that James’ poor cock was constrained by those entirely too-snug jeans.

Francis was hardening too, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d spend without even laying a hand on himself. It was an unfortunate reality that his drinking had affected his ability to perform. The number of times James had rolled over in a huff was far too high, and now he was risking the opposite.

“What do you need?” Francis cupped James’ magnificent clifftop of a chin with one hand, sliding the other down to where James’ cock pressed against his fly, squeezing until James shuddered, unable to get anything out.

“Bedroom?” he asked, James nodding his agreement.

It was a good idea, and they made a masterful attempt to complete it, but James, it seemed, couldn’t wait, pushing Francis up against the nearest wall instead.

“Do you know how many times I had to go take a long hot shower after our attempts?” James said tersely, pulling up Francis’ shirt and undershirt in one fell swoop before tossing them aside. “Thinking about you fucking me when you couldn’t?”

“That’s what you want, don’t you?” Francis pulled James’ sweater off, less deftly than James had removed his top, not his fault as from the waist up, James was all hard muscle and elbows. He grabbed James’ wrists, squeezing once, tight, then relaxing and waiting.

James, that incorrigible tease, made him wait, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip as he ducked his head. It was always clear who was really in charge.

“Yes,” he huffed out.

“Then stay there.” Francis squeezed again, pivoting and pressing James up against the wall with a short shove. “Oh. Have you…have you seen anyone? I don’t mind if you have, I get it, I’d need a rubber if you’d like me to suck you off, which I’d very much like to do-”

“No. Nobody else. You?”

Francis shook his head, James giving a tentative smile.

“Good.” Francis bent in, finding the juncture of James’ beautiful neck and shoulder and sucking, hard, until James shivered and whimpered. Then he bit, enough to leave a mark. James was his. Or at least he wanted him to be, again, and he would move mountains to make it happen. But first he intended to fuck James through the wall.

The bottle of lube was exactly where Francis remembered. They had spent a long weekend test-driving several brands before landing on a favorite. James had unbuttoned his trousers by the time Francis returned.

“Did I say you could do that?” James paused, quailing a bit under Francis’ fierce gaze and quiet, steely voice, Francis pushing James’ pants down, reaching in for his cock.

The return of an old lover might have dimmed the novelty of it, but James was at turns new and exciting and familiar, Francis relishing reacquainting himself with James’ exceedingly exceptional cock, hard and already beaded with precome.

“Nearly there, are we? So needy,” Francis admonished. “Turn around.”

“Please, Francis, please, please.”

Francis slid his hand between James’ thighs, leaving a trail of lube until he reached his destination, slipping one finger inside, James letting out a guttural moan.

“So tight. That’s me in you.” Francis pressed his entire body into James, pinning him to the wall. “More?” A second finger joined it. “You can take it, can’t you?” He knew that kind of thing drove James a bit dick-mad, James thrusting his hips back onto Francis’ fingers. Christ almighty, he was hard, pushing his own trousers down with his spare hand before reaching around for James’ cock.

“Please,” James whined. “Please fuck me.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” Francis removed his fingers, making sure his cock was well-lubricated, pressing the head against James.

“Yeah?”

James nodded, bucking his backside against Francis’s cock.

_God._

Sinking in, Francis remember that they had been good at this, when they’d been able to. James’ body, his breathy sighs and moans, the way he gripped Francis’ cock, that hot vice-like tightness, his back against Francis, it was as natural a fit as though they’d never been apart. Francis gave a quiet thanks to the frightful ghost-James and his insistence on doing a bit of graveyard cleanup before gripping James’ hips and fucking him, vigorously.

Neither lasted long, James spilling down his front and onto the wall (thankfully it was painted sheetrock and not aging wallpaper), Francis finishing inside James, but not before asking, nearly too late, if it was ok to do so.

“You mentioned biscuits,” Francis said, propped up in James’ bed. They had showered, going for another round, this time hand jobs, Francis burying his face in James’ neck, right next to the bruise he’d left.

James came back into the room, tin in hand, smiling. Francis knew that look, one of a man extremely satisfied.

“Did you want to tell me about your dream?” he asked as James got into bed next to him. 

“Don’t remember much of it,” James said. “You were there for part of it, with that awful winter coat, that one that leaks feathers.” James was a terrible liar, but Francis let it be.

“I couldn’t talk for part of it either.” He flapped a hand. “You know how dreams are, don’t make sense half the time.”

He curled into Francis.

“Are you real, James?” Francis asked.

“About as real as I can be, I think.” He looked up at Francis. “I forgive you.”

Francis could have cried, if he didn’t think immediately of Franklin’s proud happy face. 

“Happy Christmas, James.”

James looked up at him.

“Happy Christmas, Francis. God bless us, every one.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original title of Dickens' novella is A Christmas Carol. In Prose. Being a Ghost Story of Christmas. Then there are various quotes floating around of "Every love story is a ghost story" (the title of a biography of David Foster Wallace) and "every ghost story is a love story" (quoted, at least in part, in The Haunting of Bly Manor).
> 
> I have of course taken _significant_ liberties with the original as Francis isn't a skinflint working his employees into the ground, but rather a sad recovering alcoholic needing to take stock of things.
> 
> My favorite version of A Christmas Carol is the 1984 made-for-tv version with George C. Scott. It's very faithful to the original, and it's on YouTube. It's also nearly 2 hours long. Audiobook versions are also available on YouTube and, when he's not getting paid by the word, I find Dickens very accessible, and the story remains incredibly relevant.
> 
> This work is completed but needs a few more minor edits, and I endeavor to post all of it on or before Christmas!
> 
> The biggest of thank-yous to Kami who lets me bounce ideas off him all the time and helps me proofread. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> Come find me on Twitter! It's kiingboooo (two i's)


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